


The Hangover - Minas Tirith Edition

by pizzamargherita



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Compliant, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, Gondor, Humor, Inspired by The Hangover (Movies), Post-War of the Ring, Stag Nights & Bachelor Parties, Third Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:15:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29485872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pizzamargherita/pseuds/pizzamargherita
Summary: The Imrahilions and the Rohirrim hit the White City for Faramir's stag do. What could possibly go wrong? (My sincere apologies, Professor Tolkien!)Despite the title, this is silly but not pure crack.
Relationships: Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Kudos: 12





	1. What on Yavanna's Green Earth Happened?

It was a fine Tuesday morning in the Capital of the Reunited Realm. A gentle breeze was blowing – well, it was what Minas Tirith folk would call a gentle breeze. More like the sort of breeze that howled between the towers and tore viciously at the washing that a few early-rising Gondorian housewives had already hanged up on clotheslines going from window to window. Beneath the fluttering shifts and linens a maiden of fair complexion and foul mien was struggling up the cobbled street, clutching the shawl around her shoulders for dear life and cursing under her breath in a foreign tongue.

“What possessed me to come to this Béma-forsaken country?” she muttered, more to herself than to the other young lady following her cheerfully.

“Come now, dear, it’s just a bit of wind,” the latter pointed out, “and such a splendid, sunny day!” She brushed away a strand of her companion’s hair that had just slapped her in the face.

Maiden number one gave her a scowl. “Don’t get me started, Lothíriel. Not two days before my wedding and certainly not while my betrothed is missing.” She marched on towards the Sixth Gate, where the two armoured guards snapped to attention under the Nazgûl slayer’s murderous gaze. The ladies entered the Sixth Circle and directed their steps towards the house of Imrahil. They passed between the two delicate marble swans on either side of the door – at which Éowyn rolled her eyes – stepped into the entrance hall and were greeted by a maid who curtseyed before them.

“Any news of the Lord Steward?” Lothíriel asked quietly after she had convinced herself that no one else was listening in. 

The old woman shook her head. “No, my lady, still no sign of him.” 

“What about…?” A jerk of her head towards the second corridor on the left was enough to make the servant understand.

“Unchanged, my lady.” A shadow of horror crossed the woman’s face.

The ladies exchanged a nod of silent agreement – there was no other way, it had to be done. They strode down the corridor, determined to execute Plan B with as much dignity as they could muster. Bracing themselves, they shared a last look of mutual reassurance, and Lothíriel pushed open the door to the morning drawing room. 

“If they’re still asleep, I swear I will…” Before the shieldmaiden could lay out her full plan of vengeance, the stench of alcohol mixed with the aroma of unwashed men engulfed them. 

“Valar!” Lothíriel gasped, covering her mouth and nose with her shawl. She glanced around the darkened room and made out six figures sprawled over armchairs, the tea table and even her mother’s outrageously expensive Umbarian carpet. She had to step over her eldest brother and the Marshal of the East-mark to get to the window. When she opened the shutters the light revealed the full extent of the misery. There lay the three Princes of Dol Amroth as well as the King of Rohan and two of his most distinguished warriors, snoring loudly, the traces of last night’s exploits plainly visible on each of their sorry figures.

While Lothíriel knelt down beside the nearest of her siblings – namely Erchirion, draped over the tea table with his hair in the fruit bowl – and gently patted his arm, the shieldmaiden planted herself over her own brother dearest and gave him a loving kick in the shin.

“Béma’s bollocks!” groaned the Lord of the Mark and sat up in his armchair. He gazed up at his sister, which was no mean feat, given that one of his eyes was swollen shut and glowing in various shades of purple and black. “What the…” He looked around the room, then back at Éowyn, and winced on touching his eye.

In the meantime Lothíriel had managed to wake two of her brothers, and the third one was stirring on the carpet where a bright sunbeam had fallen on his face. 

“Lothíriel?” Amrothos mumbled. He stretched his arms, but stopped short on noticing that his tunic was missing whereas his shirt and breeches were soaking wet and his damp hair was clinging to his neck. “What on Yavanna’s green earth happened?”

Erchirion was none the wiser. He stared down at his forearms and prodded his cheek – he was covered in scratches and very human-looking bite marks. “Ilúvatar have mercy,” he whispered, “Hálwen is going to kill me!”

He glanced at his elder brother who was propping himself up on his elbows, looking down on himself – and let out a hoarse scream that turned into a coughing fit when he realised he was wearing a dress, complete with apron and bonnet. “Good gracious,” he eventually said, “now this is… extraordinary!” 

“That’s one word for it,” contributed Marshal Elfhelm, who seemed to be the only one without any obvious disfigurements. 

Next to him Captain Éothain was still blissfully sawing logs, until the marshal punched him in the shoulder, making him jump straight to his feet while desecrating the name of Béma in at least four different colourful ways. He shook and tilted his head a few times before he figured out what was causing the unfamiliar sensation: His hair had been braided and his beard was sporting several blue beads. “Son of a…” He stopped on noticing the presence of the ladies.

Said ladies watched the spectacle with a mixture of amusement and contempt – and perhaps a pinch of sympathy, even though they would not have admitted it if their lives depended on it. 

“Must have been quite the night,” Éowyn noted dryly. “Now, would any of you care to tell us what you did to Faramir?”

“Faram-…?” Éothain repeated, looking around the room.

Lothíriel saved his clouded brain the trouble of working it out for himself. “He’s missing. We’ve been looking for him all morning, and according to his housekeeper he didn’t come home last night. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

The six men looked at each other in bewilderment. Finally Elphir voiced what all of them were thinking, “I do not even recall how I myself ended up in this predicament. My memory of last night is quite gone, I’m afraid.”

“So is mine,” said Marshal Elfhelm, and all the others nodded.

“I wish I was more surprised,” Éowyn sighed and dropped into an armchair.

Meanwhile the King of Rohan had successfully opened both his eyes and asked, “Have you tried the royal quarters? The library? The barracks?”

“Believe it or not, Brother, we have,” Éowyn snapped.

Éomer laid a hand on her arm. “Calm yourself. Faramir is a grown man, he would not just vanish in his own city.”

“Have you asked Father?” Erchirion stepped in. “If he orders a search party, they will sift through the entire place in a few hours…”

“So far we have preferred not to involve anyone else,” Lothíriel clafiried. “We thought it best not to alarm Father, let alone King Elessar. Not before we have exhausted all possibilities – which is where you come in.” She glanced around and was met with six clueless faces.

“Truly, I am at a complete loss,” repeated Amrothos. “I do remember the beginning of the night. We went to the Two Serpents, had a bite to eat and a sip of wine…”

“More than a sip, I reckon,” Éowyn chimed in.

“… but after that everything is rather blurred,” Amrothos concluded. 

His eldest brother added, “To have one’s mind so compromised by wine alone – or even by the Rohirric ale these fine fellows brought along – I daresay there must be some other mischief afoot.” The Lords of Dol Amroth shared a grave look. 

“Then let’s get to the bottom of it!” resolved the king. In a sudden fit of vitality he got on his feet, but unfortunately his vestibular organ was not as keen as he was. He staggered and bumped into a mildly baffled Éowyn. “Ugh, Béma’s b-… beard,” he mumbled and sat back down, rubbing his temples.

Lothíriel watched the display with an ever deepening frown. Eventually she determined that what this assortment of heroes needed was a bit of common sense and some of Aunt Ivriniel’s famed “heavy head tonic”. In her best commander-in-chief voice she chirped, “I’m afraid this won’t do at all. My lords, all of you,” she gestured at the whole miserable ensemble, “on your feet, and come along!” Without another word she marched out of the room.

-x-x-x-x-

About half an hour later the band of conspirators was assembled in the winter dining room. On the ladies’ insistence everyone was now tolerably cleaned up, munching bread and cheese and sipping a greenish-brown concoction that the Princess of Dol Amroth, having grown up with three brothers in one of the realm’s main wine regions, had perfected over the years.

“I must say, I’m feeling much more the thing now, aren’t you?” Elphir asked almost cheerfully. Having his breeches back had clearly lifted his spirits.

“Yes, splendid indeed,” grumbled Erchirion behind gritted teeth while his sister was dabbing honey on his mysterious bruises. “Thank you, dear, I think that’ll do.”

Éomer, who was pressing a generous piece of raw beef against his eye (a shameful waste of a perfectly good dinner, according to Lothíriel), laid out the battle plan. “If we want to find out what happened to us and find Faramir without letting anyone know, our best bet might be to trace back last night’s events. Amrothos!” The prince lifted his head about an inch off the table. “You were in charge of the quest. Do you…”

“The quest?” Éowyn interjected, which convinced Amrothos to lie back down.

Captain Éothain clarified, “Some silly Gondorian custom, my lady. They made the Lord Steward fulfil several tasks, one given by each of us, to prove himself worthy of you, or so they said.” He shook his head as vigorously as the throbbing pain under his skull permitted.

“How ridiculous! Why would you do such a thing?” Éowyn scoffed. “Why not just have a drinking contest, or a footrace, or a fistfight with my brother, as we would in the Mark… Oh!” A glance at Éomer already seemed to reveal part of the mystery.

The King of Rohan gave her an incredulous stare. “Are you suggesting Faramir did this to me? Faramir? Of all people?” He snorted at the outrageous assumption.

“And whyever not, my Lord King?” Lothíriel jumped to her cousin’s defence. “Would a fine Gondorian warrior not be a match to you?”

Éomer made an honest effort to be civil but his headache got the better of him. “Sit down, Swan Princess, would you!” he snapped, rolling his eyes.

Lothíriel opened her mouth to protest, but closed it again on realising that all three of her brothers and Éowyn had already proceeded to shout at the king, whereas Éothain had taken his lord’s side. She exchanged a look of silent suffering with Marshal Elfhelm. One way or another, this was going to be a long day.


	2. I Might Call Firefoot A Minstrel

After another cup of Lothíriel’s wondrous elixir, the six swashbucklers gathered the evidence of their misfortunes, namely Éothain’s blue beads and Elphir’s bonnet, and set out in search of truth and vengeance. And Faramir, of course. 

As Amrothos had pointed out, they did recall starting their adventure at the Two Serpents, the home of – in the innkeeper’s own words – the finest grape and the fairest verse below the Citadel. The band of battered heroes braved the storm all the way to the Fourth Circle, and wherever they set foot the good citizens of Minas Tirith eyed them with equal parts wonder and scorn. 

Halfway down the Fourth Circle high street, between a basket weaver’s shop and a bakery, a wooden sign showing two snakes, a glass of wine and a quill welcomed them to the tavern. “A poets’ den?” Éowyn asked with a pitiful gaze at her brother and his captain. “I hope to Béma you two kept your mouths shut.”

“So do I,” mumbled Éomer and added, “leave it to Faramir to find a dull place even in this madhouse of a city.”

Éowyn only grinned but Elphir would not stand for any such slight. “My Northern friend, the Two Serpents are renowned not only for their weekly poetry readings but also for their excellent choice of Gondorian and Dorwinion wines,” he declared. “I remember spending many a pleasant evening here, back in my cadet days.” A hazy smile crossed his face. It took Éomer a moment to understand that this was in fact meant to improve his opinion of the place. 

They found the emerald green window shutters closed and the door locked. Apparently neither the literati nor the oenophiles of Minas Tirith were up at such an unholy hour. Éowyn grabbed the polished brass doorknocker shaped like two intertwined snakes and made sure every living being in a one mile radius became aware of their presence. Even the basket weaver next door stuck his head out of his window but one peek at the strange company convinced him it was none of his business and he promptly disappeared again.

“Get thee gone!” came a muffled growl from inside the tavern. “We’re closed!” Éowyn, however, would not be deterred and continued working the doorknocker with all the might of the House of Eorl.

“By Daeron’s lyre, quit pounding on my bloody door, you thrice-accursed madman!” the voice was heard again. “I’ve paid my license, if that’s what you’re after, and if it’s about the cockroaches, that was a one-off incident and has been duly dealt with.” At that a collective wince went through the offspring of Imrahil.

The shieldmaiden only rolled her eyes and was just about to mishandle the brass snakes for the third time when she could at last hear footsteps shuffling towards the door. The lock clicked and the sharp smell of soap suds and floor wax emerged through the door crack, along with a rather disgruntled face.

“Alright, here I am! I swear, no living man in his right mind goes to a tavern at this hour.”

Éowyn raised her eyebrows. “No living man am I!” she clarified, musing on how many occasions she had uttered these words and what that might imply about her life choices. “You look upon Éowyn Éomundsdaughter of the Riddermark. Would you kindly allow us to speak to you?”

The innkeeper assessed Éowyn and her entourage for a few seconds before he nodded begrudgingly and waved them inside with the dirty rag he was holding. “Beg your pardon, my lady.” He dropped the rag in a bucket on the floor and his eyes traced the footprints they were leaving on his freshly waxed floorboards before he observed, “Long night, eh? My my, you look like you’ve just come from the Pelennor.” 

Erchirion eyed the innkeeper icily. “I daresay we looked rather worse that day,” he replied in a voice that could have cut through Orc flesh, “and if you, my dear fellow, had fought on the Pelennor, you would not say such things.” Both Éomer and Éothain took in a sharp breath, whereas Lothíriel and Amrothos only exchanged a knowing nod. It was a rule well established in Imrahil’s household never to cross Erchirion on a post-merrymaking morning. 

“Let us not lose ourselves in chit-chat,” Elphir quickly weighed in. “We are sorry to intrude, Thalador, but as you might recall, we came to your fine establishment last night, with the Lord Steward, and I’m afraid we… Well, would you mind awfully to recount whatever you remember of our sojourn?”

Thalador quirked an eyebrow, fighting hard to suppress a smirk. “Very well,” he conceded, “I shall do my best. Would you like to take a seat – and perhaps a cup of chamomile?” He gestured at the tables, the grin clearly gaining the upper hand.

“The story will do alright,” Marshal Elfhelm growled on behalf of the whole party and dropped into the nearest chair. The others followed his example all too gladly.

“As you wish,” began the innkeeper. “Well, your party arrived about an hour before dusk…”

-x-x-x-x-

THE NIGHT BEFORE

“Ah, the Two Serpents,” exclaimed Elphir, “excellent choice, Cousin!”

Faramir inclined his head. “Glad you agree. I thought we might all enjoy a good drop and some roast mutton before I throw myself into whatever mischief your devious minds may have thought up.” 

As if on cue, the innkeeper came over with seven cups and a jug of wine, followed by a boy carrying a large plate of sliced meat and bread. “3016 Belfalas Red,” Thalador commented and filled the cups, “a superb vintage worthy of the occasion. My Lord Steward, in the name of the Two Serpents I will take the liberty to congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials.”

“Thank you, it is much appreciated,” Faramir answered. When the innkeeper and his aide had taken their leave, he raised his glass to his friends. “Here’s to good health and pleasant company!”

“And to your marital bliss, old chap,” Amrothos chimed in. “May it last longer than this drink!” He downed his cup in one gulp. Both his brothers cringed, but Faramir only laughed and took a generous sip himself.

“Béma! What is this supposed to be?” Éothain blurted and eyed the contents of his cup warily.

“As the good man said, 3016 Belfalas Red,” Erchirion repeated. “The finest export of our homeland, and I could not agree more that it is indeed a sublime grape.” He lifted his cup and inhaled the wine’s fragrance with abandon. 

Éothain gaped at him as if the Gondorian had lost his mind, then he threw a side glance at Éomer. “It might just be me but…”

“It’s not you,” the king interrupted him. “Faramir, brother by marriage or not, I have to tell you that this,” he nodded scornfully at the jug, “is vile. It tastes like vinegar!” Éothain nodded fervently, whereas Elfhelm only pushed his cup as far away as possible.

The sons of Imrahil stared at the Rohirrim in horror until Erchirion let his head sink and sighed, “Nienna weeps for the House of Eorl.”

“Vinegar?” mouthed Elphir, as if to make sure he had heard correctly. “But can you not taste the subtle aroma of sea-buckthorn and the hint of red berries behind a delicate veil of mushrooms and…?”

Elfhelm leaned over to Éothain and mumbled in Rohirric, “I don’t know what kind of mushrooms grow in Dol Amroth but I think he’s had one too many.” The captain chuckled.

“It certainly is an acquired taste,” Faramir interjected, ever the diplomat but with a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I apologise for subjecting you to such atrocities. Would you prefer a different wine?”

“Oh no, don’t trouble yourself,” Éomer replied a bit too quickly. With a nod at his countrymen he added, “I think it’s time to introduce my soon-to-be Gondorian kin to a proper Rohirric drink.” At that Elfhelm and Éothain reached for two enormous ale skins they had brought. “Now this,” the king pointed out while opening one, “is the finest brew in the Mark.” He poured the remaining wine from his cup back into the jug – much to Elphir’s dismay – and filled it with ale instead.

Éothain opened the other flask and smelled it. “And this here is a taste of Sigerun’s famous mead. I’m telling you, when it comes to making a decent, strong drink, Elfhelm’s lady wife is Béma’s gift to all of mankind,” he revelled, bowing his head to the marshal.

The sons of Imrahil decided unanimously that the honour of trying the foreign drinks first should belong to the Lord Steward. After some thorough sniffing, twirling, slurping and juggling the most pretentious wine vernacular he could utter with a straight face, he gave his verdict, “Not bad, but no match to a good Belfalas grape!”

“What?” shouted all three Rohirrim at once. For a moment the crowded tavern room fell dead silent and the other patrons turned their heads to examine the yellow-haired, bearded barbarians and their feral war cry.

“Forgive us,” Faramir said quickly, “do continue.”

What exactly there was to continue became apparent a moment later when a middle-aged man in a slightly too colourful tunic got up from his table and made his way to the centre of the room, a parchment in his hand. Chairs shuffled, heads turned, and a few encouraging whistles were heard. 

“Oh, of course, it’s the poetry contest,” Amrothos remembered. “This is going to be jolly good fun!” He poured himself another cup. The Rohirrim glanced at each other, and in silent agreement they followed his example.

The poet cleared his throat, threw back his hair and began in a low, mournful voice,

“The night was young,  
The stars shone bright,  
And swiftly as a shadow  
The rabbit sprang  
Into the light  
And over stone and meadow.”

“What in Béma’s name is that?” Éothain asked for the second time that evening. “Who rhymes about bloody rabbits? Stew and mittens, that’s what rabbits are for.” To his surprise, given that he knew nothing about Gondorian poetry and the drivel might as well have been the height of refinement, he noticed that the sons of Imrahil were also watching the poet with increasing displeasure, whereas Faramir was intently stuffing his face with roast mutton. 

“But, oh, the hound  
With dreadful teeth  
And claws as sharp as steel,  
Without a sound –  
The horrid beast! –  
The rabbit he did kill.”

By that point Faramir was pinching the bridge of his nose in obvious agony, and the first boos and other more imaginative expletives were hurled at the artist, so Éomer thought it safe to comment, “If this is poetry, I might call Firefoot a minstrel.”

“It’s atrocious,” whispered Elphir, and Erchirion pleaded, “If he has another verse, someone be so kind as to push me into the Timeless Void, would you?”

Fortunately for everyone, the failed bard got the hint and sat down again. The next one, a boy of about sixteen summers, sporting the first scarce shade of a beard and nearly bubbling over with poetic passion, presented an oeuvre about the delights of wine, probably inspired by the four Hobbits’ drinking songs that had been strangely fashionable in Minas Tirith for a few months. He received decent applause from the general crowd and some loud cheers from his friends.

When the third virtuoso was just getting ready, Amrothos suddenly sat bolt upright in his chair and announced, “I have an idea!”

“Great Ilúvatar have mercy,” came the prompt response from Erchirion.

Amrothos only grinned and said with a devilish glance at Faramir, “I think it’s high time for the Quest to begin, wouldn’t you agree? So, here goes my task for you, Cousin: To prove yourself worthy of a maiden as sharp and witty as the Lady of Rohan, I hereby challenge you to dedicate a poem to your betrothed!”

“What?” was Faramir’s less than eloquent but all the more honest reaction. “You want me to get up there and wax lyrical about Éowyn?”

Amrothos nodded vigorously, and the others seemed to warm up to the idea as well, judging by the twitch around Erchirion’s mouth and Éothain’s fist slamming on the table. 

“You must be out of your minds,” Faramir objected, “I’m the steward of this realm, I cannot make a fool of myself in this manner.” 

“No backing down from the quest,” Elphir laid down the rules. “Besides, I remember you writing poetry all the time when we were younger, and it received accolades in this very tavern.”

“That was before the war, things were… different,” Faramir gave back. “Look, this is a folly, I really can’t…” His protest might have seemed genuine to a stranger, but to those who had known the son of Denethor for long it was obvious that he was tempted.

His cousins would not yield, so eventually Faramir let out a deep sigh and pointed his finger at each of them in a row. “You people will be the death of me. Now pour me another cup of wine and shut your mouths for a while, I need to think of a lay worthy of this illustrious audience.”

When two more self-proclaimed lyricists had left the stage, Faramir took a deep breath, emptied his cup and got up. Éomer found the time to grab his arm and hiss in his ear, “You better keep this poem as clean as fresh snow… Brother!”

Faramir bowed his head. “Rest assured your sister’s reputation is in safe hands.”

Suddenly all the chatter and clatter fell silent. At first the crowd did not know whether to cheer or not, but when the steward directed his steps to the improvised stage a few shy claps and whistles emerged. He planted himself in front of the audience, shot a last half-serious glare at his band of scoundrels, and began to speak.

That was the point where Éomer’s jaw almost dropped, Éothain let out a triumphant laugh and Elfhelm leaned back in his chair with a look of deep satisfaction. The sons of Imrahil, however, could only be described as mildly puzzled.

“Is that… Rohirric?” asked Amrothos, and his oldest brother nodded, “Must be.”

“Indeed it is,” purred the king, “it’s the Saga of the Maiden on the Green Hill. Every child in the Mark knows it.”

“Typical!” laughed Erchirion, shaking his head. “My friends, in honour of this memorable moment, I think I’ll try some of your ale. Maybe it’ll help me understand what my cousin is saying.”

When Faramir had finished his rendition, he was met with five dozen clueless faces. The room stayed silent for another second or two, but then the Rohirrim erupted in cheers, and even though no one besides them had understood a word, the crowd eventually joined in. 

Faramir came back to his table and put his hand on Éomer’s shoulder. “Well – Brother – will that do?”

The Lord of the Mark smirked. “What, the greatest love story ever sung in the language of the Eorlingas? I suppose it will. Your accent needs work though, it’s not… guttural enough.” 

“Now that was easy,” Faramir stated. “Does anyone else have a task for me?”

“Don’t get cocky, Cousin!” Amrothos warned, “Just because I went with something you’re good at doesn’t mean the others will. How about…” he scanned his companions until his eyes came to rest on the marshal, “our friend Elfhelm goes next?”

The Rohir’s expression would have sent any Orc running for the hills. He breathed deeply in and out, then he grumbled, “Frankly, I don’t give a donkey’s balls about your tasks. I’m only here to make sure these two rascals don’t cause a diplomatic incident.” The jerk of his head directed at his liege lord and the captain did not go unnoticed. “Twenty years past I could give them a beating when they got up to any nonsense, but I can’t do that anymore, can I? So here I am, playing chaperone, but I’m not sending this poor fellow on any daft quests.” He downed another cup of ale just to make sure everyone had understood that he was utterly through with the matter.

“Well then,” Amrothos tried again carefully after an awkward pause, “what about you, Erchirion? Would you like to go next?”

“Certainly,” his brother replied, side-eyeing the marshal, “but for my task we will have to leave this fine establishment and descend to the Second Circle.”

Elphir frowned. “It has nothing to do with the whorehouse, does it?” His voice sounded more tired than anything else. The Rohirrim thought it wisest not to ask.

“Indeed it does not,” Erchirion answered without flinching. “I was merely going to suggest that there are wandering folk from Near Harad in town, and I’d like to challenge our cousin to some… cultural exchange.”

“That sounds tempting enough,” Faramir determined. “Anyone for another sip of wine? No? Then give me a moment to pay our good man Thalador and I’ll be with you in no time.”

-x-x-x-x-

“That’s all I can tell you,” the innkeeper concluded his tale. “The Lord Steward mentioned you were going to the Second Circle market to see the travelling folk – and if you don’t mind me saying so, I think that’s where your night must have gone awry. You can’t be careful enough around strangers these days.”

Elphir nodded and said to Thalador, “Thank you, old chap, that was very helpful indeed. And sorry about the intrusion.” He peeled himself out of his chair by sheer willpower and signalled the rest of the company that it was time to leave. 

On the way out Éowyn took Lothíriel by the arm and whispered, “I am in no way reassured about Faramir’s fate, quite the opposite, but at least I know he hasn’t deserted me on purpose. The Saga of the Maiden on the Green Hill is a pain to learn.”

Lothíriel nodded gravely. “Oh, you have no idea! If you’re lucky, he’ll recite the entire Lay of Leithian to you on your wedding night. Four thousand two hundred verses.” The look of horror on her friend’s face made her giggle.

Elphir, however, stopped halfway to the door and turned back. “Thalador, one more thing: Do you happen to recall what I was wearing last night?”

“Beg your pardon, my lord?” the innkeeper asked and tilted his head. He never paid quite that much attention to his patrons.

“I mean,” Elphir clarified, leaning in closer, “was I wearing breeches?”

The bewilderment was plainly visible on poor Thalador’s face. “I, uhm… I should certainly hope so, my lord,” he stumbled, before Erchirion saved him by grabbing his brother’s shoulder and shoving him unceremoniously out the door.


	3. A Time-Honoured Tradition

Before the company entered the Second Circle marketplace, Éomer summed up the progress, “Right, we know that after the Two Serpents Faramir was still with us, Elphir had his own clothes, Erchirion had no bruises, Éothain’s hair was not braided, and I didn’t have this.” He pointed at his eye that had taken on the colour and texture of a well-made black pudding. 

His sister frowned. “Hmm, it almost seems as if everything was fine as long as you stuck to Faramir’s plan.” Éomer scowled at her as convincingly as one could with half of one’s face swollen. Suddenly Éothain grabbed his arm.

“Son of a troll!” the captain observed as poignantly as ever. It was not so much the disarray of stalls, people manoeuvring handcarts around, merchants shouting and buyers chattering. It was not even the two ladies with very red lips catching some sunrays at the door of the local house of ill repute. No, Éothain’s eyes were fixed on the left edge of the cobbled square, where he had made out three tents and a wooden wagon. Nearby two horses were munching hay and a long-legged dog lay draped picturesquely on the wagon. The apparent owners were sitting on the ground, one with fabric elaborately wrapped around her head, the others with braided hair and gold earrings.

Éothain’s face hardened on realising that they looked awfully familiar. “Oliphaunt people!” he growled and reached for his sword – which happened to be in the Fourth Circle armoury, as he remembered promptly.

“Calm yourself!” Elphir intervened, almost managing to not roll his eyes. “No oliphaunts here! Would be fairly hard to miss, I reckon. Not all Haradrim are warriors, obviously. Those ones have probably never picked up a spear in their lives and are no less delighted that the war is over than your father and mother on their farm.”

“We often see the likes of them in Dol Amroth, they travel the lands selling spices and jewellery,” Lothíriel added, more to the petrified Éowyn than to the captain. Éothain unclenched his fists reluctantly. 

The oldest of the Southrons became aware of the visitors and waved at them. “My friends! You’re back!” he shouted in the thickest accent ever uttered north of the River Harnen and motioned at them to come closer. When they reached the little camp, the old man immediately locked Éothain in a tight embrace. 

“Let go of me!” the captain muttered. “I’m not your friend!” 

The stranger laughed, showing a missing front tooth. “Funny, you said the same yesterday. Have you forgotten us, Man of Quick Temper? And where are your braids?” At that the company gasped collectively. 

“You see,” Elphir explained, “we don’t exactly remember what happened last night, so we beg your forgiveness for not recognising you. In fact, would you mind refreshing our memory… friend?”

The man nodded knowingly. “Too much of the Northerners’ drink, not good for the head. I always tell my children to stay away from it. Come, come, sit!” He directed them to where the two young people were sitting on the ground. They looked up from their work – the man was crushing spices and the woman was stringing colourful beads on a thread – and they both forced a polite but rather icy nod.

“This is my son, Ogyrimur, my daughter, Marsulai,” the one with the missing tooth said, “and I am Naaqrud, your humble host.”

“Jolly good, well met… again,” answered Elphir. “I am…”

“Don’t bother, Man of Loose Tongue,” the Southron interrupted him, laughing. “No one can pronounce you people’s strange names, let alone remember them.” Nobody had the heart to respond to that, so they just made themselves comfortable on the cobbles as best they could.

Naaqrud noted, “One is missing. The Man of Learning is not here.”

“That is, I daresay, our main issue at this moment,” Amrothos replied. “So, you are saying that Faramir was with us when we got here last night?”

“Oh yes, Man of Mischief,” Naaqrud affirmed. “It all started with him, the Man of Cunning,” he pointed at Erchirion, “persuading the Man of Learning to consult Zarghul the Farsighted.”  
Erchirion raised an eyebrow. “And who might that be?”

Naaqrud turned towards the tents and shouted something in his language. A woman answered – one did not need to speak Haradric to understand that she was not happy – and after a short exchange the tent flap opened and Zarghul the Farsighted stuck her head out. Her eyes wandered from one guest to the next, until she looked at Éowyn and Lothíriel and stated dryly, “You two need to talk some sense into your menfolk!” With that she disappeared back into the tent. 

“Forgive my wife,” Naaqrud said, “she means well but she has no patience for wanton violence.” His tongue wandered along his front teeth and stopped at the gap, then he glanced at Éothain.  
“Wait, you mean I did that?” the captain asked.

The Southron took a deep breath. “Oh dear, oh dear, we might as well start from the beginning then.”

-x-x-x-x-

THE NIGHT BEFORE

Erchirion dodged a passer-by’s elbow and pushed past a group of drunk youngsters in hooded cloaks before he came to a stand in front of a wagon masquerading as a market stall with dozens of colourful spices on one side and a collection of gold and glass jewellery on the other. “Behold, here we are!” he declared, pointing at a painted sign that advertised the name Zarghul the Farsighted amidst some obscure symbols.

The three Rohirrim kept a wary distance. “Skin me an oliphaunt!” Elfhelm mumbled. 

Éothain said nothing, he only glared at the rest of the Haradrim’s display. A few steps from the stall a young man was lighting small torches. A crowd had gathered around him. Before the Rohirrim could work out what it was all about, a gasp followed by loud cheers went through the audience as the first torch disappeared in the man’s throat. Elfhelm and Éomer took a step back and Éothain gulped.

“A few more years of this and he’ll have a voice like my father on the battlefield,” Amrothos joked behind them. “Come, or you’ll miss Erchirion’s task.” He grabbed Éothain by the shoulder and pushed him through the crowd towards the edge of the marketplace. There his brothers and cousin had joined a queue, at the end of which they could see a veiled woman sitting on a rug, examining the palm of a young girl.

Faramir put on a face of despair. “Woe is me!” he lamented. “Erchirion just challenged me to have my fortune read! I’m not even allowed to make jokes, and I have to pay for it, too.”

Erchirion laughed. “It appears that this lady is renowned all over Harad. All these young girls cannot be wrong.” He slapped poor Faramir on the back.

Another Haradric man holding a hat full of coins approached them and bowed. “Welcome, friends, to the oracle of Zarghul the Farsighted!” He smiled from one ear to the other. “Which one of you is seeking the spirits’ advice?”

Faramir took a sudden interest in the tips of his boots, but when Erchirion nudged him he stepped forward. “Ah, excellent,” said the Southron, “bones or palms?”

“Uhm…”

The man grinned. “Hard choice, I know. But my friend, for you I have a special favour: I’m offering you a reading of both your palms and the bones for only three tharni – what do you say?”

“Three tharni?” Faramir repeated harshly enough to make Erchirion clear his throat. “Fine!” The steward produced three coins from his pocket and dropped them in the hat.

“What is the question that ails you?” the Southron wanted to know next.

Faramir could barely suppress a snort at his shameless tactics, but after a side glance at his snickering friends he answered, “I would prefer to keep it general. Anything the spirits can reveal will be appreciated.” 

“Very well,” the Southron replied and bowed again. “It won’t be long now.” With that he left for the next customer.

When it was his turn, Faramir was invited to sit on the rug opposite the fortune-teller while his friends stood around them. The woman’s dress was adorned with countless beads and a strong smell of incense clung to her. For a long while she only sat and looked at her client, until she finally said in a husky voice, “You have sought out the oracle of Zarghul, but you have not come entirely of your own accord – Faramir son of Denethor.” She made a dramatic pause, but all she got from Faramir was a polite nod. To him it would have been much more of a miracle to meet someone in Minas Tirith who did not recognise him, and no one with eyes could have overlooked his discomfort. 

“That is correct,” he only replied. His friends were trying their best to keep straight faces. 

The fortune-teller reached for his right hand and studied the palm. “You have seen great hardship,” she whispered, “you have lost those closest to you and faced a shadow darker than the deepest night.”

“Correct again,” Faramir affirmed, but he could not stop himself from adding, “and we have a word for that in our language: it’s ‘war’.”

Zarghul ignored him and continued, “The woman you are pledging yourself to went through the same shadow. In fact, she destroyed it, and then you lifted each other out of the darkness…” 

“…a story that every man, woman and child in this city can tell you,” Faramir finished her sentence. Erchirion shot him a glare.

The fortune-teller paused for a moment, and despite the veil on her face Faramir somehow got the impression that she was grinning. “I see you are a man of learning and you take pride in the sharpness of your mind. In fact, it was what set you apart from the other one, the strong one, the one you loved above all else and in whose shadow you stood for so long.”

At that Faramir drew back his hand. “With all due respect, I would be much obliged if you left my brother out of this.”

She let out a deep breath. “As you wish.” She reached for a small leather bag, shook it and emptied it on the rug. An assortment of chicken bones fell out, which she studied intently while murmuring to herself. Faramir looked at his friends like a mortally wounded man begging for the sweet relief of death.

“It is the eve of your wedding to the fearless horse maiden from the North,” the fortune-teller spoke again, “a day long-awaited but dreaded all the same.” 

Faramir raised his eyebrows in genuine surprise. “Is that so? Your bones say that I dread my wedding?”

“Oh yes, they do,” she answered, but something in her voice had changed. “However, as you clearly do not heed their wisdom, I will tell you that common sense is enough to see that you are afraid. How could you not be? First of all, most people are, take that from an old married woman. And secondly, you grew up without a mother and with a father who was too burdened to do right by you. You are wondering if you will make your wife happy and if you are fit to be a father, when you have never seen either done properly.”

Faramir frowned and scratched his chin. His friends were suddenly looking in all directions except for his. “Well…” he started, but she was not finished.

“I do not know you or your betrothed, but I have known enough men and women to recognise good intentions and a true heart. You will do just fine – and if what they say about your lady is true, she won’t have it any other way. You will learn and grow together. Now go, Lord Steward, get out of my sight and take your silly friends with you, before you ruin my business!” She chuckled under her veil and shooed him away.

Faramir took a second or two to collect himself, then he bowed his head and quickly got up. He readied himself for his cousins’ snide comments, but nobody was paying him any attention. 

They were all staring at Éothain who was standing a few steps away, speaking to the torch-swallowing Southron from before who was now trying to sell him some beaded necklaces. “You think this is tacky? No, no, your wife will look lovely in it, my friend,” the young man claimed.

“For the dozenth time, I’m not your friend,” Éothain answered, “and I’m not buying your trinkets. My wife wouldn’t be seen dead in that.” He pushed the Southron’s hand away perhaps a little too forcefully, and a string of beads hit the young man’s face ever so lightly.

Fate took its course too fast for any of the bystanders to intervene. The man screamed something in his language, dropped his merchandise and pushed Éothain backwards. The captain flung his fist at him, missing his chin by the width of a finger.

“Éothain, stop it!” the king and the marshal roared in unison, but now the coin-collecting Southron ran to his kinsman’s aid. They both lunged at Éothain, one grabbing him by the throat and the other kicking him, but what they had not considered was the sheer mass of the average Rohir. The captain threw himself on the ground and took both his attackers with him, resulting in a screaming and cursing ball of red and green fabric, black and yellow hair, and flying fists.

“Are we doing anything about this?” Elfhelm asked his king stoically.

Éomer crossed his arms. “Not me, I’m on a diplomatic visit.”

The Gondorians stared at the spectacle, much the same as the rest of the crowd. A group of young men, all dressed in black hoods, even started cheering.

“With our luck the Guard will come around the corner any moment,” Faramir muttered and looked behind his back.

“On the Second Circle?” Amrothos scoffed. “Don’t tell Father, but they rarely come down here after dark, and right they are.”

The brawl might have gone on indefinitely, had not Zarghul the Farsighted put an end to it. Armed with a bucket of water, she emerged from the crowd in all her mystic glory and gave the three warlords a cold shower. For a moment everyone fell silent before the crowd erupted in laughter and started to disperse. The quarrellers slowly got on their feet, groaning and cursing under their breath. Zarghul walked away without so much of a word. The older Southron moved his jaw from side to side, pursed his lips – and spat out a bloody tooth.

“Béma!” Éothain mouthed in honest astonishment, and under the reproachful looks of his companions he mumbled, “I didn’t… Well, sorry about that.”

The Southron started grinning, then he chuckled. “Not bad, Man of Quick Temper!” he said eventually. “Naaqrud and Ogyrimur admit defeat. Thank you for ridding me of this rotten tooth that has been troubling me for days.” He picked up the tooth, examined it with satisfaction and gave a baffled Éothain a slap on the back. “Come now, come with me, all of you!”

A while later Faramir’s band of heroes sat around the fire with Naaqrud, sipping too much ale in too little time and passing around a pipe stuffed with a sweet-smelling Haradric herb mixture that was doing astonishing things to the heads of those who were not used to it. Elphir especially seemed to get merrier and merrier with every puff he took – and he took them with abandon. 

Naaqrud reached into his pocket and produced a handful of blue beads. “These are for you, Man of Quick Temper,” he said to Éothain. “You defeated us, you’ve earned your victory beads. It’s only fair!” He crouched down next to him and reached for his hair.

“Wait, what? Don’t…” Éothain protested, waving his hands, but the ale and the fumes were taking their toll, and before he knew it Naaqrud was braiding away while the others were having the time of their lives passing their expert judgement. Elphir especially seemed to enjoy himself, chuckling uncontrollably while waving the pipe around.

“Steady, old chap!” Erchirion tried to take the pipe from him, but to no avail. “Fellows, I think my brother is broken. I haven’t seen him laugh this much since that time we locked Ivriniel in the boathouse when we were boys.” 

Amrothos nodded. “Those were the days… But really, Elphir, are you quite alright?” He waved his hand in front of his brother’s face, which only made Elphir laugh harder.

A devilish grin suddenly appeared on Amrothos’ face. “Brother…” He put his arm on Elphir’s shoulder. “I noticed you haven’t put forward your quest for Faramir yet.”

Everyone, even Naaqrud, stopped short – this was not a good sign! 

“Don’t tempt him, leave him be,” Faramir protested weakly, but it was apparent that the gears in Elphir’s head had already started turning. 

He got on his feet, pointed the pipe directly at Faramir, and exclaimed, “Cousin! I hereby challenge you to… uhm… to obtain a maiden’s undergarment!” He looked awfully pleased with himself for a second or two before he started chuckling again.

Faramir blinked twice. “You don’t have to do this, sit down…”

“You heard him,” Erchirion weighed in, “no backing down from the quest! Besides, it’s not his fault, it’s… tradition!”

“That’s right!” Amrothos snickered, “It’s a time-honoured tradition of our people. Every groom in Belfalas has to do it. Oh, and it can’t be bought for money, those are the rules.” He winked at Erchirion, who nodded solemnly.

The steward looked at the Rohirrim, then at Naaqrud, and back at Elphir, who was swaying slightly back and forth without the faintest idea what he had started. 

“Fine,” Faramir sighed, sounding more exhausted than anything else. “I’m regretting every choice I made that has led up to this, but if this is what it takes to get you off my back, a maiden’s undergarment it is.”

-x-x-x-x-

Naaqrud looked no less uncomfortable than his audience as he finished telling the story. Éowyn’s death glare at the brothers would have put the eye of Sauron to shame. Lothíriel was about ready to burst into flames or be swallowed up by the earth, either one seemed appealing to her.

“I apol-…,” Elphir started, but his sister cut him off.

“Please, I think you have said quite enough. And you two! A time-honoured tradition? You should be ashamed of yourselves!” Erchirion and Amrothos tried their very best to look guilty but could not quite manage. 

Éothain turned to Naaqrud. “That was… revealing. Thank you – for refreshing our memory and for your hospitality. And sorry about your tooth, again. Now, do you remember how we went about that undergarment business?”

Naaqrud scratched his head. “All I saw was that you didn’t go over there for it.” He motioned at the house of ill repute, at which point Éowyn mouthed ‘thank goodness’ at Lothíriel. 

Naaqrud’s daughter, who had been watching quietly until that moment, spoke up, “I think you may have gone to that tailor shop across the street.” She pointed at the shaggy building in question. “I was there this morning, selling some beads to the seamstress, and she said something about…” She glanced nervously at her hands. “Well, she said no one would ever believe her, but apparently the Lord Steward came to her shop with a horde of drunks and… he kissed her.”

“Béma have mercy,” sighed the Lady of Rohan. Before she could start a full tirade, her brother wisely decided it was time to move on. They all profusely apologised to the Haradrim again and went on their merry way to the next piece of the puzzle.


	4. Perhaps Your Story Needs A Punchline

“Despicable behaviour!” Lothíriel grumbled. She had been laying into her brothers all the way from the market to the tailor shop. “You are supposed to be ambassadors of our homeland, not tarnish our reputation with disgraceful rumours! Especially not in front of guests.” She glanced uneasily at the Rohirrim.

Elfhelm shrugged. “Don’t trouble yourself, my lady, my kinsman wasn’t exactly a beacon of propriety himself, from what we’ve heard. Isn’t that right, Éothain – wait, where is he?”

Everyone turned around, only to see the captain sprinting after them with a few beaded necklaces dangling from his pockets.

“What in Ulmo’s name is this?” asked Amrothos. “Did you not say your wife would hate those?”

“Oh, she will, and they weren’t cheap either,” Éothain answered, “but I consider it payment for the tooth and all the bruises. They’re decent people after all, it’s only fair.” He stuffed the necklaces back in his pockets, unaware of the astonished looks of his friends.

The door of the tailor shop was wide open and a young seamstress – a very young seamstress with bright hazel eyes, as Éowyn could not help but notice – was sitting outside on a bench, stitching away. 

To absolutely no one’s surprise, Erchirion was the first to approach her. “Good morning, my dear! This might be an unusual question to ask, but do you recognise us?”

She got up and curtseyed. “Of course, my lord. With respect, you haven’t changed much since last night. Well, some of you have, a little.” She glanced at Elphir, then at Éomer. 

Erchirion smiled. “What a relief, so we are on the right track. The issue is this: it’s hard to believe that anyone could forget a vision such as yourself but…” 

At this point Lothíriel cleared her throat audibly, which gave the girl the chance to turn towards the door and shout, “Grandmother, they’re back!”

From the workshop emerged a tiny old woman, scissors in hand, pins sticking in her apron. “Well, well, good morning to you, my lords, my ladies.” She bowed her head to all of them. With a glance at Éomer’s black eye she added, “I see your adventures have continued. What brings you back?”

“Their adventures, precisely,” Lothíriel replied, still side-eyeing her brothers. “They do not remember last night’s events and it has become a rather pressing matter to find out what exactly they got up to. Will you help us?”

The seamstress gave the men a quick once-over, then she nodded. “Of course, take a seat. I say, Rohirric ale and Haradric pipe-weed are not two things I would mix, personally. Rínil, go fetch more chairs!”

The girl went inside to drag out two wooden stools, all under Éowyn’s appraising frown. 

Elphir pulled the bonnet he had woken up in from his doublet. “Have you seen this before?”

The seamstress smiled. “Not only that, I made it, as well as the dress that goes with it. I gave both to the Lord Steward. By the way, I hope he is alright? He did not have a run-in with those shifty hood people, did he?” 

Éowyn said quickly, “Oh yes, perfectly alright. But let’s hear the whole story, if you don’t mind. The Lord Steward and his friends came over from the market – and what happened next?”

-x-x-x-x-

THE NIGHT BEFORE

“And I thought we had strange wedding customs in the Mark, what with the fire jumping and sword giving and knot tying and all that,” Éomer mused as he followed Faramir towards the shops opposite the marketplace. 

“For the record, the undergarment is not a tradition I’ve ever heard of,” the steward grumbled. “Truthfully, I only want to get this tiresome quest over with, and I figure it’ll be easier to just do it than to argue with my cousins in their current state.” He glanced over his shoulder, only to see both Erchirion and Amrothos propping up their hapless brother while Elfhelm and Éothain were trailing after them, clinging on to an empty ale skin each.

“So, what’s the plan?” asked the king. “Remember, you cannot buy it for money – it’s the rules!” He felt sorry for teasing Faramir but he reasoned that the man who was going to marry his sister might as well get used to it. 

“You know, we could go the easy way – pardon the pun – and try the knocking shop,” Amrothos suggested. “That fair maiden over there might not need her undergarments.”

Faramir said dryly, “She looks rather busy. If you want to compete for her attention with those two… characters she’s talking to, be my guest. By the way, what is it with those hoods? They seem to be everywhere tonight!”

He was right. The men chatting to the working girl were wearing black hooded cloaks, just like the youngsters they had seen at the market. An unusual fashion choice, even for the capital. 

“It is a mystery indeed,” Erchirion groaned while doing his best to keep Elphir on his feet. “Can we find him somewhere to sit down and sober up for a while, before we both break our backs?”

They dragged the chuckling heir of Dol Amroth a little further down the street, praying to their respective Valar of choice that word of their predicament would not spread too far. Finally they could plop him down on a wooden bench outside what looked to be a tailor shop. Despite the late hour there was still light inside.

“Some water will do him good,” Elfhelm observed. Faramir could not argue with that, so he decided to swallow his embarrassment and knock on the tailor’s door.

It opened with a creak and an old woman stuck her head out warily, looking left and right and then at Faramir. “Yes? What do you w-… oh, my word!” Her face froze when she realised who was standing in front of her. “My eyesight isn’t what it used to be, but I’ll be damned if it isn’t the Lord Steward at my door! What on earth brings you to these parts?” She noticed his sorry entourage. 

“We… we are in need of assistance,” he explained. “May we trouble you for a cup of water? My cousin here has had an encounter with a Haradric herbal remedy.”

“Ugh, bloody pipe-weed!” she scoffed. “The smell gets everywhere. I’m telling you, I do like the beads they’re selling but I cannot wait for them to leave for the sake of breathing fresh air again. Well, as fresh as it gets down here anyway. By all means, bring him inside.” 

Elphir was dragged into the workshop where he promptly sat down at the only table and rested his head on a pile of embroidered fabric. The small room was dimly lit by some tallow candles and crammed with half-finished garments and bales of cloth in all imaginable colours. A young woman was sitting in the corner; on seeing the visitors she dropped the piece she was working on and jumped to her feet, pulling a pair of scissors from her apron pocket.

“It’s all good, they aren’t here to rob us,” the old woman reassured her, and to the guests she said, “This is Rínil, my granddaughter, who knows to be wary of strangers at this time of night. And I’m Tíril, at your service.”

“Thank you, truly,” Erchirion replied while pulling a delicate piece of needlework out from under his brother’s chin, “as you can see, we are hardly in a position to attack anyone.” 

The girl put down her scissors. She went to pour some water for Elphir, who downed the whole cup in one gulp. It seemed to work, after the second cup he even managed to stay upright on his chair.

In the meantime Éomer and Éothain inspected the different fabrics. Even though no self-respecting Northman would ever be seen wearing such outrageous colours, they were fascinating to look at nonetheless. 

“Do you see anything you like, my Lord King?” Tíril asked.

Éomer shook his head. “They are all very nice, but I’m not exactly one for purple silk. However, if I recall correctly, the Lord Steward is after a very specific piece of clothing.” He smirked at Faramir, who looked ready to murder him.

“This is hardly the time and place,” he started, but a second later the irony of his statement occurred to him, given where he was. Before he could bring himself to tell the women about his predicament, Amrothos took it upon himself.

“You see, Lord Faramir is on a mission. It is his last outing as an unmarried man, and as his kin from Belfalas we have asked him to honour an old custom of ours and procure a maiden’s undergarment.”

Tíril frowned. “Funny, that. My late husband was from Belfalas and I must have seen half a dozen family weddings, but not once did that particular custom come up. I suppose you’re never too old to learn something new.” 

She raised an eyebrow at Faramir, who only shook his head. “Don’t I know it? If only you had seen what I have seen tonight, good woman, you would understand why I’m humouring them.” In the corner Rínil chuckled into her embroidery.

Suddenly there was a bang at the door that made everyone jump. Elfhelm, who was standing closest, raised his fists, and Éomer pulled a knife from his boot. To their surprise, Rínil brandished her scissors once more, marched to the window, and peeked through the curtains.

“Hood people,” she simply stated and her grandmother shrugged, equally unfazed.

“Yes, what exactly is that about?” asked Erchirion. “We’ve been seeing them all evening.” 

Rínil explained, “It’s the same every week. They come down here already drunk, some of them stop at the… you know,” she gestured in the general direction of the house of ill repute, “and eventually they move on to the First Circle. They’re mostly harmless, just a nuisance, certainly not the strangest thing that happens here.”

“No the strangest by far,” Tíril added. “And those up there don’t seem to care. I feel like the last time I saw a guard down here was when I still had a head of black hair. You know, this used to be a place where good honest people could live in peace. By Vairë, I’d give a free supply of maiden’s undergarments to anyone who could rid the lower circles of all the filth that creeps around at night.” She was speaking more to herself than to Faramir but he had heard her just fine.

“My jurisdiction in the capital is limited but I will raise the matter with the king. In fact, I shall personally see to it that the posting of guards is revised before I leave the city.”

Tíril seemed sceptical but she clearly appreciated the gesture. “Thank you, my lord. Whatever comes of it, things can only get better, really.” She paused for a moment, then she scanned the workshop until her eyes came to rest on a large basket on the floor.

“Now let’s see if I can’t uphold my end of the bargain.” She dug through the basket, throwing out ribbons, scraps of lace, a woollen shawl… “This might do,” she finally said, pulling out a bundle of dark blue fabric held together with string. She untied it, and out came a finished dress, with a matching apron and bonnet wrapped up in it. 

Tíril held it up for Faramir. “It’s not an undergarment but it’s the best I have on such short notice. The woman who ordered it years ago never picked it up. I think she might have died of the pox, actually… Anyway, it’s only collecting dust. It might have some moth damage and the colour is completely out of style now, so I don’t even think it’s worth reusing the fabric. If you have any use for it, my Lord Steward, I’ll gladly let you have it.” 

Faramir reached out but Erchirion grabbed his arm. “Wait a moment! Did the lady have the pox when she came for her fitting…?” 

Faramir rolled his eyes and took the dress. “I am delighted and very grateful indeed. It will do wonderfully for my cousins’ quest.” He glared at them, just in case there were any objections. “But I have to insist on a payment…”

“Nonsense!” Tíril stopped him. “I’ll tell this story for as long as I live, to anyone who will listen. ‘The night the Lord Steward stood in my shop.’ And it was the young, handsome one, too.” She giggled.

Faramir hesitated for a second, then he grinned. “Perhaps the story needs a punchline. May I?” He leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you very much for your help.”

On the other side of the room Rínil gasped and her face turned almost as red as her grandmother’s. Elphir started chuckling again, and Éothain thought it a great idea to whistle. 

-x-x-x-x-

“And that’s it, you took the dress and left,” Tíril concluded, once again blushing a little.

Éowyn suddenly seemed much more affable than before. “Splendid! Thank you for enlightening us. Good to know that someone at least got a good story out of this folly. Do you have any recollection of where they went afterwards?” The seamstress thought hard for a moment but couldn’t recall.

“I do!” Rínil chimed in. “I’m not sure my grandmother was paying much attention anymore by that point…” Said grandmother gave her a half-serious scowl. 

Rínil turned to Éothain. “You challenged the Lord Steward to find out what the hood people were up to. You said because he used to be a ranger and all that, he should be able to scout them out. I didn’t see where you went, but from what I’ve heard, they usually meet at the Ugly Mug.”

“The what?” Éothain blurted.

“It’s a tavern on the First Circle,” Erchirion explained. “Not the sort of place one would visit in polite company. Or unarmed, for that matter.” The others exchanged uneasy glances.

“Well, let’s do what has to be done!” resolved the Lord of the Mark and signalled the others to leave. 

Lothíriel stopped them. “Not so fast! We are not taking this good woman’s merchandise for free.” She slipped a few coins in Tíril’s hand. “No, I insist! After last night the House of Imrahil may be called many things, but miserly will not be one of them.” She said the last part with a glare at her brothers. “I shall also recommend your services to my mother. She mentioned wanting the curtains in her bedchamber replaced.” 

With that the company took their leave and moved on towards the First Circle.


	5. It's A Secret Society!

Anor had reached her zenith for the day and was burning down on the White City. The company had stopped in the shade of the Second Gate to get some water from the local well and refine their battle plan. 

“The Ugly Mug is right there around the corner,” Erchirion pointed out, “but even if it’s open I doubt anyone will want to speak to us without bribery. Also, might I suggest the ladies sit this one out? It really isn’t a pleasant place.”

Éowyn huffed. “Neither was the Pelennor. I daresay after the Witch-king a few crooks and ruffians seem quite manageable.”

Éomer exhaled deeply. “Thank you for reminding us of your deeds, Sister, I was worried people might forget.”

A very unladylike snort-laugh escaped Lothíriel. She tried to mask it with a cough but still earned a glare from Éowyn and a nod of appreciation from the king. “Who would have thought it, she has a sense of humour.”

“What I have is three brothers in constant competition over the most valiant deeds and the wittiest banter and…” She noticed Éowyn’s disheartened face. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just… you do bring it up quite a bit.” 

The shield-maiden crossed her arms. “Fine! Next time there’s an ancient evil to slay, one of you can have a go!” She started walking towards the tavern, but Amrothos jumped in her way. He pointed down the street where five riders were just turning the corner – riders in blue cloaks, donning the swan emblem.

“Ulmo’s gills, not that as well,” Erchirion muttered. “Is there anywhere to hide?”

But alas, they had already been spotted. The leader raised his hand to signal the other riders to halt. His stern look wandered from one adventurer to the next until he finally said, “Good gracious, what in the name of Elbereth has befallen you? Did you encounter a pack of stray Orcs at the taverns?”

“No, Father,” Elphir took it upon himself to answer, mustering whatever princely demeanour he had left. “We are…”

But Imrahil had a more pressing question. “And you, Lothíriel, what are you doing here? You shouldn’t be prowling around the city with six men. No offence, my lady,” he added towards Éowyn. “Elphir, what is the meaning of this?”

“We are looking for F…” 

Amrothos stomped on his brother’s foot before he could reveal too much. “The, uhm, the dog,” he blurted, but that was as far as he got.

“Yes, indeed!” Lothíriel jumped to the rescue, “Lynx ran away. We’re looking for him.”

Imrahil’s frown deepened with every word his offspring said. “I know you are fond of your dog, my dear, but do you really have to look for him yourself? With all your brothers and our guests? Go home and send the kitchen boy instead. Amrothos, will you see to it that your sister gets home safely?”

“Of course, Father,” the youngest replied dutifully. He knew as well as everyone that Imrahil was merely humouring them.

“Very well then,” said the commander. “By the way, do you happen to know where Faramir is? Last night some fool went up the White Tower and set the flag post on fire, can you believe it? The guards swear they did not see anything. I would like to have a word with Faramir about that. If I can find him, that is.” He scanned the group for the smallest sign of weakness, or at least that was what it felt like to them.

“I believe he went to the archives,” Erchirion improvised, “to investigate the soil quality in Emyn Arnen. He wants to grow… goats there. Breed. He wants to breed goats.”

The corners of Imrahil’s mouth twitched ever so slightly. “Goats? I see. Well, in that case I shall not disturb him. If you see him, I trust you will send him to me.” He gave them all a polite nod and got ready to ride on, but on looking at Lothíriel he hesitated as if he had just remembered something else.

“This reminds me,” he addressed Éomer, “there is a matter I wish to discuss with you some time soon, perhaps after your sister’s wedding.”

Before the king could do much more than nod, Imrahil signalled his riders to move on. Three of the soldiers followed him, whereas the fourth lingered behind for a moment.

“Amrothos!” he hissed. “Berion is looking for you, he says he needs to speak to you urgently. Something about last night.” With that he kicked his horse into a trot and caught up with the others.

The company collectively held their breath until they thought Imrahil was out of earshot, then they all turned to Amrothos.

“Interesting,” was all he came up with. “Apparently someone knows more than us, so I say we change the plan and go find my friend Berion. He works at the counting house by the granary.”  
No one could disagree with that, so they started their ascent back to the Fourth Circle.

The counting house was busy at this time of day but they did eventually find Berion. He seemed equal parts relieved and embarrassed when he saw Amrothos and his entourage, and quickly made up an excuse to slip away from his work. He ushered the visitors out of the building and down a quiet alleyway that led to a patch of grass with a few cherry trees. Only when he had convinced himself that no one else was listening in did he start talking.

“I’m so glad you came, I was worried you might be suffering the aftermath of last night.”

“If by aftermath you mean forgetfulness, then yes, we are indeed,” Amrothos admitted. “Were you with us?”

“I’m afraid so,” the young man replied, looking more and more deflated as his eyes wandered from Éomer’s black eye to Erchirion’s bruises and eventually to the ladies’ judgemental faces. “I should never have gone there, and I swear I’ll never go back!”

“Hold your horses, young fellow,” Elfhelm weighed in. “Go where? The Ugly Mug?”

Berion shuddered. “Precisely.”

-x-x-x-x-

THE NIGHT BEFORE

“Whoever named this place must have been a prophet,” the Lord of the Mark pointed out, eyeing the tavern across the street with mild disgust. “I’ve seen dung heaps cleaner than that.” 

“We should have worn our stable clothes,” Éothain added.

Faramir scanned the surroundings for any more hooded figures. They had already seen two of them disappear behind the creaky door of the tavern. The steward would never have admitted it and blamed it partially on the Rohirric ale, but in a way this quest intrigued him. After spending months upon months trapped first on a sick-bed and then in dusty writing rooms and audience chambers, infiltrating an underground society sounded like a welcome distraction. 

“Righto! Listen up, troops!” he joked, “The goal is to find out what the hoods are doing, nothing more. We go in, we gather intelligence, we leave. Any questions?” 

Erchirion raised his hand. “What about our brother dearest?” He was still propping up Elphir, who had stopped chuckling and was now cradling the bundled up dress like a baby and admiring the stars in the night sky. 

“He’ll blend right in,” grumbled Elfhelm. 

Faramir just shrugged. “We can’t leave him here by himself, and I don’t suppose any of you want to play chaperone and miss the action…? Well then, in we go! And remember: don’t draw attention to yourselves.” He smirked as he marched towards the tavern, leaving the others to deal with Elphir. Oh yes, he was enjoying this quest very much!

Four noblemen and three foreigners walking into the Ugly Mug was not a sight the regulars were used to. All eyes were on them from the moment they entered until they sat down. There was not much light in the room and the few tallow candles gave off a rancid smell that mixed with the aroma of beer and sweat. There were soot stains on the walls and the floor was covered in straw – straw that had not been changed in at least a couple of months. Now and then something small and grey could be seen scurrying from one hiding spot to the next. The patrons ranged from unassuming workers to noisy drunks to the sort of people one would not wish to meet in a dark alley. Behind the bar they could see the innkeeper drawing pints, and a red-faced tavern wench was shuffling from table to table collecting dirty plates. 

“Charming establishment,” Amrothos observed, poking at a mysterious stain on the table that might have been the remnants of a candle or spilled soup or a bodily fluid or perhaps some unholy mixture of all those things. He wiped his fingers on his breeches.

In the meantime Faramir had spotted the target. He nudged Éomer and pointed at two hooded people sitting a few tables away and three more who were just leaving the main room through a doorway covered by a curtain. 

“Should we follow them?” Éomer asked, but before Faramir could answer the innkeeper caught them looking at the doorway. He whistled at the servant woman and signalled her to attend to the newcomers’ table.

“Good evening, my lords,” she greeted them. “What can I get you?”

After a short pause Éothain asked, “What are the options? Any… beer?” He looked at the others for reassurance. 

“Of course,” the woman said with a half-hearted smile, “I’ll be back at once.”

Lo and behold, soon she returned balancing a large wooden tray with seven cups of beer, and also seven smaller ones filled with some sort of spirit.

“Excuse me, we did not order those,” Erchirion protested, but she waved him off. 

“No, no, these are from the fellows over there. They paid for your beer too.” She gestured at the hood people’s table. Everyone turned around, only to find one of the strangers waving at them.

“Amrothos Imrahilion, my man!” he shouted, “Long time no see!”

A baffled Amrothos squinted and leaned forward, as if that would help him identify the man. “Is that…” he whispered, “I think it’s… what’s his face… Thondir! We went through Basic Training together.”

“Was he the one you broke into the stables with and painted that poor horse blue?” Erchirion asked, at which all three Rohirrim turned to gape at Amrothos.

“It was his idea, I swear,” he mumbled, “besides, we were sixteen!” He waved back hesitantly.

The two hooded men got up and dragged their chairs over to join the party. When Amrothos recognised the second one, his face showed genuine surprise and a hint of relief.

“Berion! Good to see you. What are you doing here, what is all this hood business?”

The young man smiled nervously. “I’m not sure, really, it’s my first time. It’s, uhm…”

“It’s a secret society!” roared Thondir at the top of his lungs, with his little cup of fire water raised high above his head, making poor Berion shrink in his seat and Faramir bite his own fist to stifle his laughter.

“Not the sharpest arrow in the quiver, is he?” Éothain whispered at no one in particular.

Thondir, completely unaware, put his arm around Amrothos. “Look at you! I can’t believe it’s been a decade. And all of you,” he waved his cup at the others, spilling some of the contents on Faramir, “I say, it was fate that brought you here tonight.”

“How so?” Faramir decided to humour him.

“It’s initiation night,” Thondir proclaimed. “I brought Berion along to see if he had the guts, but now you can all have a go.” He leaned in, generously blowing his alcohol breath in their noses. “The Order of Thuringwethil admits new members once a month, and tonight’s the night.”

Éomer put up his hands. “Wait a moment! Thuringw…, that rings a bell. It’s the bat lady who had her magical cloak stolen and then supposedly got mauled by the giant dog named Dog, right? Or was that a different obscure Elf poem?” He snickered at Elfhelm and Éothain’s clueless faces.

“Surprisingly, that sums it up quite well,” Faramir replied. “But what on earth is this so-called order?”

Thondir just grinned. “There’s only one way to find out, my Lord Steward. Drink up, and then you can see for yourselves.” He emptied his own cup, and Berion hesitantly took a tiny sip from his but spat it out again. The others eyed the clear liquid sceptically.

“Not for me, thank you, I quite value my eyesight,” Faramir declined, “you can have mine.” He pushed his cup towards Thondir, who downed it in one gulp.

“Go on, it’s not poisonous,” he laughed. “At least not as bad as the stuff we used to drink back in the day.” He elbowed Amrothos in the ribs.

“Well, I suppose if he’s drinking it…” Erchirion pondered. “It might make this whole affair more enjoyable.” He emptied his cup, grimaced, and shuddered. “Bend me over and call me Niënor! This is… not too bad at all.” 

Thondir burst out laughing and encouraged the others to follow Erchirion’s example. Eventually they all drank the cursed concoction, and when they had recovered Thondir ushered them towards the curtained doorway.

It led to a narrow corridor with a trapdoor. Thondir opened it and voices and music could be heard from downstairs. He was the first to climb down the ladder, the others followed one by one.

The basement was a small, damp and stuffy room with a crude stone floor and unfinished walls that had been blackened. A large woven banner depicting a bat was hanging from the ceiling. Candles and torches were burning, not helping the air quality in the slightest but at least shining some light on the two dozen or so people moving around in a delirious dance. Someone was playing the fiddle in the corner; either too intoxicated to hit the notes or purposely playing a screechy cacophony to suit the occasion. 

When the new arrivals were noticed, several hooded men and women came to welcome them. Thondir drifted away to join the dance, whereas the others kept a wary distance.

“What possessed you to come here?” Amrothos shouted in Berion’s ear.

The poor boy could only shake his head. “Thondir wouldn’t leave me alone until I agreed. If I had known what this is… By the way, what brought you here?”

“Faramir’s last night on the town before his wedding,” Amrothos enlightened him, gesturing at the groom to be who was clearly having the time of his life trying to keep his eldest cousin from falling over.

“Speaking of which,” he shouted back at his companions, “would you consider this quest fulfilled?”

Éothain, being the one who had proposed it, nodded vigorously. “By Béma, yes! Let’s get out of this hellhole!” 

Faramir, feeling responsible for his flock, checked that everyone was there. Three Rohirrim, Berion, two cousins… “Wait, where is Erchirion?”

They scanned the room and spotted a flicker of russet linen in the midst of all the black robes. Erchirion was being dragged into the dance by two women. To be fair, he was protesting a little, but not nearly as much as he should have. Faramir could not resist rolling his eyes.

“He just can’t help it, can he?” he muttered, and Amrothos groaned in frustration. Both of them started moving towards him, careful to dodge the dancers and not lose sight of him, which was no mean feat in the general chaos.

Suddenly the music stopped and the dance came to a halt. The crowd parted to allow a man and a woman to get to the centre of the room. They stood hand in hand, holding a small knife each. A bad feeling rose in Faramir’s stomach, and this time he could not blame it on the ale.

“Friends,” the woman started speaking, “She of the Secret Shadow welcomes you to this sacred gathering. We honour Her by giving our blood so that we shall receive Her blessing. Let the ceremony begin!” She raised her knife and in a sudden movement she cut into the man’s palm, and he simultaneously did the same to her. They then raised their bleeding hands to each other’s mouths and licked off the blood. Faramir held his breath and looked at Amrothos in disgust. 

All of a sudden the crowd erupted in cheers. The people now pulled knives of their own out of their cloaks and turned on each other to engage in the bizarre ritual.

Faramir spotted Erchirion, who stood dumbfounded, staring at his two ladies who were coming at him with their blades. 

“Nonononono, don’t you even…” they heard him shout, but it was too late. One of the women managed to cut his arm and the other simply bit him in the hand. “Ow! What in all the accursed names of Morgoth is wrong with you people?” He tried to fight them off, but it was two against one and the alcohol was not doing him any favours. 

Faramir and Amrothos pushed and shoved their way through the crowd to get to him, but before they could reach him, a deafening battle cry resounded in the small basement.

“Forth Eorlingas!” boomed both the Lord of the Mark and his loyal captain. Éomer lunged forward to come to Erchirion’s aid, but Elfhelm, who still had some common sense left, grabbed him by the shoulders. Éomer’s muddled brain somehow decided this was a hostile assault, so he turned around and tried to push the marshal off. Elfhelm however, after everything he had been put through this evening, had run out of patience . He threw one punch, leaving it up to Béma to decide where it might land – it happened to land right above his liege lord’s eye. Éomer stumbled backwards, collided with Éothain, and they both fell on the floor. 

Most people in the room had stopped their mutual bloodsucking to watch the commotion, which gave Erchirion a chance to free himself. He made for the ladder, grabbed hold of his brother, and fled the scene, followed by the rest of the company.

-x-x-x-x-

Berion nervously picked a piece of fluff off his sleeve just to have something to do. His story had provoked all sorts of reactions ranging from utter shock and disbelief to amusement.

“So, was it the fire water then?” asked Amrothos. “Is that why we don’t remember?”

Berion nodded. “I believe so. I heard Thondir call it a magic potion, but then I was sure he just meant it was strong liquor, or else I would have warned you. Maybe there was some sort of herbal concoction in it? I personally didn’t like the taste, so I left it.”

“Bloody Thondir,” Amrothos growled. “Always bad news.”

Erchirion was examining the bruises on his arm with mild disgust when something suddenly occurred to him. “Faramir didn’t drink it! So his memory should be fine. What happened after we left the basement?”

“Well…” Berion glanced at Elphir. “We tried to get out as quickly as possible, and you were a bit under the weather.”

Elphir cringed. “Here it comes. Go on, it can’t get any more embarrassing – can it?”

“I’ll let you be the judge of that,” Berion snickered. “Sorry! What happened was that on the way through the taproom you bumped into the serving wench and she spilled about three pints of beer all over you. You were absolutely drenched, not to mention the smell! So you decided – at your brothers’ suggestion and encouragement, I might add – to take off your wet clothes and put on the dress you were carrying around.”

Elphir exhaled deeply and rubbed his temples. “Sometimes I wonder if I should have pushed you two off a cliff when we were children,” he said as politely as those words could possibly be uttered. “But I guess I should also thank you for not abandoning me in my sorry state, so we’re even.”

“No hard feelings,” Erchirion gave back. “Oh, and I’m sorry about putting you all into the predicament in the basement, it was thoughtless of me. I do feel partially responsible for…” He pointed at Éomer’s eye.

“Not your fault,” the king reassured him. Instead he glared at Elfhelm. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

The marshal gave him a blank look. “How about ‘You’re welcome for preventing a diplomatic scandal’? But you’re right, I might have been a bit harsh, and I apologise.” He held out his hand and Éomer shook it.

“Excuse me?” Éowyn interrupted them. “This is all very touching, but would you mind focussing on the main issue? Where did you say they went next?” she asked Berion.

“I’m not too sure,” he replied. “I went straight home. But there was talk about a flag and the Citadel, I think.”

“Imrahil!” Éothain exclaimed. “He said some moron lit the flag post on fire!” At that all colour drained from the three brothers’ faces.

“Please, just this once, let it not be our fault,” Elphir prayed to the universe at large.

Lothíriel was not even fazed anymore. “Well, what are we waiting for? Onwards and upwards!”


	6. The Sheer Audacity Of It

The winding road up to the Citadel had never felt so long. The company did their utmost to look inconspicuous while also keeping an eye out for any signs of Imrahil. Thankfully they went unnoticed and reached the Seventh Gate. The two guards eyed them with a bit of a smirk, strangely enough. 

They managed to sneak into the Court of the Fountain without anyone stopping them, but they soon realised that they could not possibly enter the White Tower without a plausible reason. While they lingered by the fountain and pondered their options, they noticed a soldier strolling leisurely towards the entrance of the Guard’s quarters. He was obviously off duty, carrying his helmet in one hand and an apple in the other. When he became aware of the strange assembly he came towards them with a huge grin.

“Greetings, my lords, my ladies,” he bowed his head, “so the legend is true!” He gave Amrothos a pat on the shoulder.

“Greetings to you, Aegas,” the long-suffering youngest brother replied. “Do I even want to ask what legend you’re referring to?”

The soldier laughed. “Don’t be modest, you’re considered heroes in the barracks. Your adventure will go down in the Guard of the Citadel’s lore. I wish I could have been there. By the way, don’t worry, no one has said anything to Imrahil, and we intend to keep it that way.”

Now they were even more confused than before. Elphir took the matter into his own hands.

“Listen, old chap, it turns out we got poisoned last night and our memory is rather hazy. You’ll have to help us out here. What did we do?”

Aegas worked excruciatingly hard to look Elphir in the eyes without laughing. “In your case, it’s probably for the best that you don’t remember. No offence.”

“None taken. I have gathered that much. Never mind the blasted frock, what happened?”

“Alright, alright,” Aegas wheezed. “So, from what I’ve heard you turned up around midnight, wasted like halflings on pipe-weed.”

-x-x-x-x-

THE NIGHT BEFORE

“No, Éomer, I’m not doing it!” Faramir planted himself in front of his brother-in-law and crossed his arms.

The Lord of the Mark was not ready to give up so easily. “You went along with all the others’ ridiculous quests, whereas mine is merely a sign of respect to your future wife’s heritage.” He shoved a rolled up banner in Faramir’s hand. “I walked all the way to the barracks to get this. By Béma, we flew this very banner on the Pelennor! My people shed their blood…”

“Fine!” Faramir almost shouted. He unwrapped the Rohirric banner, looked at it for a few seconds, and let his eyes wander up to the Gondorian flag that was flying high above the mighty Tower of Ecthelion. “I cannot believe you’re making me do this. There are laws against this, you know. Some might consider it treason.”

“Some might consider you a bore,” Éomer gave back. “You’re the steward, what’s the worst that could happen to you?”

Faramir stuffed the banner under his tunic, turned around without another word and walked through the Seventh Gate, avoiding the guards’ looks at all cost. He waited by the sapling for his band of scoundrels to catch up with him. As usual, there were two watchmen at the entrance to the White Tower. They would let him and his friends in, of course – it was not so much the illegality of this undertaking that worried him, it was the sheer audacity of it, the nerve, the cheek! His ancestors were undoubtedly turning in their graves at this very moment. He half expected to hear a distant rumble from the Hallows. The thought of that place evoked memories that he had no wish to revisit, so he quickly focussed his mind back on the task at hand. 

The others, even Elphir, had managed to get past the gate and were trickling into the courtyard one by one.

“For the love of Ulmo, Béma, and whoever else might be listening, I beg you to be quiet and leave the talking to me,” he implored them. They approached the guards at the tower’s entrance – clad in their shiny parade armour, holding their polished spears, and not at all prepared for what was stumbling towards them. 

“Good evening, fellows,” Faramir addressed them and they snapped to attention. “Never mind us, my friends and I are just going upstairs for some stargazing. The Eagle shines especially bright tonight.” He surprised himself with how naturally this lie was coming to him and blamed it on the prolonged exposure to his cousins.

The guards looked the visitors up and down, but they could hardly deny the steward entry to his own tower, so they opened the door and the company marched inside. Faramir grabbed one of the torches mounted on the wall and ushered them all towards the staircase. The stone steps were worn and slippery, and there were exactly three hundred and eighty-eight of them, as he had verified many times as a boy. He could hear the wind howling louder and louder the higher they climbed.

They finally reached the upmost platform where the infamous flag post stood. The view was indeed spectacular, with the White City sprawled out beneath, the stars glimmering above, and the mountains looming in the distance. But this was not a time for aesthetic contemplation, there was a crime to commit! 

The floor on the platform was tiled but had not been maintained very well, so it was full of potholes and puddles from the last heavy rain. Faramir avoided three of them over the short distance from the stairs to the flag post. He tugged on the rope; the mechanism for raising and lowering the flag was all rusty and stuck. He managed to pull it down about three feet, but it was still too high to reach.

“Right, someone has to climb up,” he resolved. “Which one of you lot is the lightest?” It was more of a rhetorical question, as that distinction obviously belonged to Amrothos.

He sighed and resigned himself to his fate. Faramir handed him the banner, and Éomer and Éothain gave him a leg-up. He fiddled with the rope for a moment, struggling to see.

“Hand me the torch,” he demanded, and Faramir obliged.

What he had not anticipated was a sudden gust of wind that made the torch flare up and blew a few sparks right onto the Gondorian flag. Amrothos dropped the torch and the banner and tried to put out the flames with his hands. He did succeed; however, he also set his own tunic on fire in the process. He let out a scream and fell backwards on top of his friends, who had the presence of mind to dip him into one of the puddles.

The whole spectacle only lasted a few seconds and Faramir observed it in a daze. He looked up at the proud flag of his ancestors that was now sporting two large burn holes. His mind told him that this was a scandal, a horrible disgrace, but when he glanced back at his band of dishevelled, flustered, soaked, bitten, and beaten up friends, he could not help but burst out laughing, and he kept laughing throughout the awkward encounter with the guards who came running up the stairs and who would later claim that they had never seen their steward quite like this before.

-x-x-x-x-

Aegas looked at the company with the utmost admiration. “And this, my fine fellows, is how history was made,” he concluded his tale.

No one could think of anything to say. They all just gaped at each other, trying to digest what they had heard. 

Except for Éowyn. “Splendid, great, wonderful story!” she groaned, clapping her hands. She poked her finger in Aegas’ chest and channelled all her built up frustration into one question, “But where is Faramir?”

“I’m over here, what’s the matter?”

The whole company turned around as one. Three horses came trotting through the Seventh Gate, bearing the King Elessar, Legolas the Elf and Gimli the Dwarf – and Faramir son of Denethor, Lord Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien, in the flesh. 

Éowyn ran over to him without so much of a word and flung her arms around him as soon as he got off the horse.

“It’s good to see you too, my dear,” he uttered, clearly at a loss. “This is a most welcome surprise, but what have I done to deserve it?”

Éowyn looked at the company, then back at him. “For starters, you’re alive!”

Faramir exchanged bewildered glances with his three friends. He walked over to the adventurers with Éowyn still clinging to his arm.

“Would any of you care to explain what’s going on? Why would I not be alive? By the way, you look rough! I’m surprised you’re up already, after last night’s ordeal.” 

“We spent all morning looking for you all over the city!” Erchirion blurted. “We had to retrace the entire evening, none of us have any memory of it because of the bloody fire water and the pipe-weed and the ale… or something. Anyway, where were you?”

“Camping!” he said cheerfully, pointing at the rolled up blanket attached to his horse’s saddle. “Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli didn’t feel like joining our adventure last night – and a wise decision it was – so they picked me up after the flag disaster and we spent the rest of the night by a campfire under the stars. You know, like the old days. Mind you, you all saw me leave.” 

“Béma’s bollocks!” it burst out of Lothíriel. A dozen shocked faces turned to her. “I’m so sorry, I have no idea where that came from,” she muttered and cleared her throat. “Glad you’re alright, Cousin!”

King Elessar and his friends came to join them, and the Elf curiously examined Éomer’s black eye. 

“Fascinating,” he pointed out. “It has changed colours! And there are so many of them, black and purple and…” Gimli nudged him with the hilt of his axe. “Oh, forgive me, I’m sure it must feel rather unpleasant.”

King Elessar could hardly contain his amusement at the entire situation. “Faramir has told us all about your endeavours, and I must say I’m thoroughly relieved that I had no part in them. Also, you might be pleased to hear that you will not be arrested for mutilating your ancestors’ flag.” He grinned at Amrothos, whose face turned the colour of a good Dorwinion late vintage.

“Sorry, my Lord King,” he mumbled, and to his companions he added, “So, should we, maybe… leave?” The others could not agree fast enough. 

“Let’s find something to eat!” suggested Éothain and made for the gate with Elfhelm and Amrothos in tow. 

“I’m going to lie back down,” Elphir resolved and strolled off, followed by Erchirion. 

Éomer approached Lothíriel. “So, Swan Princess, now that you curse like a Rohir you’re one of us. I was wondering… would you like to meet my horse?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Uhm, yes, why not. Oh, and I can whip up some marigold ointment for your eye, it works wonders.”

When everyone had eventually wandered off, including King Elessar and his friends, Faramir and Éowyn stayed behind by the fountain. 

“Well, at least the families have had an opportunity to get to know each other…” he stated, scratching his head. “Really makes you wonder, doesn’t it? How will they ever get by on their own when we leave?” He chuckled.

Éowyn took his hand and grinned. “I don't even want to imagine."


End file.
